


The Horns of the Righteous

by TyrannicalToffee



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood and Gore, Confessional, Could get worse depending on how sinful I want this, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knives, M/M, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Not exactly Blasphemy, Not myself certainly, Oh who am I kidding, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Priests, Religion, Suggestions of a Serial Killer, Torture, Why Did I Write This?, please stop me, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9928463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyrannicalToffee/pseuds/TyrannicalToffee
Summary: Father Leron is a man of utmost control. A devout member of the church and a leader in his community, Father Leron has always made sure to show his very best to the people who know and adore him.Until he meets Sarif, and never before has anyone made him more delighted to lose that tightly-bound control.





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Use Once and Destroy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9448754) by [Cunninglinguist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunninglinguist/pseuds/Cunninglinguist). 



> Alright, let me just say right now. I'm honestly terrified about posting this. I haven't done it before and I probably shouldn't be going through with it whilst sleep deprived and heavily caffeinated but y'know. Is what it is. As it is my first story, please go easy. Or don't, because I need some serious shame for writing this. As for anything you might find erroneous, kindly correct me. There's little I know about the church and whilst research has somewhat robust my knowledge, I'm bound to make some mistakes. 
> 
> This is partly inspired by Cunninglinguist's work, and by extension k.m. claude's webcomic. Both are amazing, and I feel no inhibitions admitting that. Thank you.

You can always tell the eyes from the innocent from those of a predator. 

It's all in the confidence. 

Those who want most for repentance need it the least, in all truth. I cannot impress myself how many I've seen come to confess twice a week for the most menial details. Perhaps they borrowed a bike wrench and forgot to return it. Perhaps they lapsed in their promise of celibacy until marriage and protracted a virus onto their computers from an excess of online pornography. Perhaps they happened upon an accident that they could not purge from their minds, claiming that they were somehow attracted to the display. 

Ten hail Mary's, ten our father's. The sins are absolved and the Lord forgives all. 

But I've seen men in this very chapel who I know have no reason for such petty confessions as these. 

They always hold themselves straight, they pay attention avidly to the recitations from excerpts of Bible study, they don't let their children talk. They don't hear their wives. I've seen them pass in and out of the church doors for years, like shadows. They've been here longer than I. 

But who but a Priest, who has more to their story than anyone cares to think, knows their town better? I've listened to their confessions. I've heard their concerns. I've blessed them with penance. I've listened to the children and wives and mothers when none other would. 

I know these men before me like I know myself. 

Three are rapists. One of them is a child molester. He stands next to me, the other two sit in the pews next to the very women they've forced themselves on. Four are wife-beaters and two of those same demographic have beat their children as well, one of them is also a member of the rapist party. There's one murderer, and it was accidental, an ex-member of the Klu Klux Klan who kidnapped an African-American teenager with five other men with the intent of scaring the boy, only for them to wind up with an asphyxiated corpse on their hands and no alibi. But after all, this is South Carolina, and those who know others are able to swindle a second-degree murder charge to a probationary charge with a few simple words over iced tea and biscuits. 

The women are not so innocent themselves, though considerably more accepting of their moral limitations and more likely to follow the call for repentance with the necessary diligence it requires. Three have confessed that they lust for me. Two more that they have been unfaithful to their partners. A particular favorite of mine, Grendade Robinson, demurred to me outside of the church that she has a drinking habit and despises her husband and her sons for the freedom they have as men. That all she has ever wished for was to change her sex so she might taste the power that men have as rulers of a modern world. I took this as I always have, giving suggestion only when she indicated she needed it. Perhaps that's why the township have taken to me so completely despite my rather obstreperous entry into their midst.

They're all obsessed. In love with their dramas and litanies and the slight deviations of the ordinary that make their world just maddeningly short of perfect. 

I doubt anyone's ever guessed the very same person they've been whispering their endless secrets to holds far worse than they could begin to comprehend. 

But, how does the saying go? 

It's always the quiet ones.


	2. Fulvous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, if anything I'm even more uncertain about this chapter. I've reviewed it repeatedly and I'm still not quite satisfied with the way it's turned out so it may be susceptible to edits--particularly if users leave comments critiquing my style and giving suggestions which--please, do. Otherwise, enjoy.

I began here two years ago at twenty-seven. Father Jacob was avid in confirming my continual devotion to the Catholic Church until I recited Psalms 75 from memory, which beheld him to grudgingly accept me as leader of Bible study for Sunday school after the regular Mass seeing as the previous teacher was currently on maternity leave.

The township was dubious of me at first, not that I could blame them. In a town that knows none to enter nor to leave, for a sudden mysterious stranger to appear in their midst was nothing short of preternatural. I was odd to them. I was told that I spoke 'like a bloody northerner' which translated roughly to mean that they thought my erudite intonation didn't fit the dialogue of fringe city people; even if my accent was the exact same as theirs. I was avoided greatly in those first few weeks, even if they tried to hide it behind the propagating politeness that seemed to follow me everywhere. I was not one of them, no manner of pretty words could dissuade this truth I understood. 

In order to sustain myself and build grounds on which to stand, I worked as a home mechanic, accepting any sort of payment that the townspeople were willing to give. For some, this made me kind; for others, this made me suspect. Regardless of either, I became a part and awareness of the township in which they could not placate. Nor would they, not until I became trustworthy enough to forget. 

It started with the women. 

Tentative wives and daughters who might slip from the home or kitchen to offer me some means of devolving their own anxiety over the consuming presence that appeared to haunt as it presided. Iced tea. Sandwiches. Soups and stews. Lemonade. I was eating well enough from these nervous women that I seriously doubt I had paid for a single lunch in those first few months upon my arrival. 

They spoke rarely to me at first, and with short words, fluttering around like the beat of a bird's wings. But then quickly after, they began to relax. Recognizing my unmitigated stoicism not for disinterest but for character; these women, these girls, might lounge nearby my work area and natter on about whatsoever caught their fancy. It seemed they did not care much that I said little, for they only wanted someone to listen; a pretense for a self-involved, reflective conversation. It occurred to me that some of these women might grow...overly fond of my equanimous mien, and this was only confirmed when the butcher's daughter, Miss Lilelle, told me quite bluntly that she wanted to lick me down my chest and see if she couldn't create a 'grease stain' herself. 

As someone so new to this town, it wouldn't do for me to start drawing my lines in the sand so quick. Conflict is a two-sided perpetration, and I was not going to let myself being a willing partner to trouble. I had set my eyes on the church since the moment I first arrived, but I knew then that simply being the teacher of an insubstantial Sunday school wouldn't be enough. I would commit to the church and become myself a Priest, as righteous and noble as the days are blue and the grass is green. 

The documentation of my false ordination was easy enough to come by, and so I threw myself into the work of the church. Organizing parties, weddings, funerals, and holiday services as required; I took not a day of sick leave. I tamed the choir boys when their susceptible age drew them to delinquency, I made friendly with the nuns, I awoke early to prepare and stayed late to settle. Father Jacob grew favourable to me, particularly when I devised seemingly innocent opportunities for the father to... _fiddle_ with his favourite member of the boy's church choir. The father's faith in me then slowly extended to the men, and the children grew to like me for the frank, unpretentious way I spoke to them. Then, soon, Father Jacob insisted that I might devote myself fully to the church and enlist his apprenticeship as a deacon but not before requesting council with the Monsignor to approve of my faith. 

To this, I obviously accepted. 

I knew, clearly, that one day this righteous, undeviating path I'd made for myself would be corrupted. However, I hadn't anticipated nor entirely stopped to consider that it might be someone other than myself disrupting it. I have always known what I am, and I have always known that my base nature would not change no matter what sort of facade I used to disguise myself from the world. Men are animals and I am worse than many men yet. So to me it would show no surprise that my semblance of holy devotion would implode when I allowed too many of my personal carnalities I'd left behind to catch up. 

However, I would not have thought, I would not have _imagined_  that no less than a mere _child_  would drag me down into the inferno out of which I'd been borne. 

She started out much the same way I had. An entire family appearing quite out of the blue in this little sleepy South Carolinian town. I hadn't seen her the day upon her arrival, although the whisperings enough from the nuns made me well aware of the presence of newcomers. But lo, it was not until I'd been asked to see the family through the church by Father Jacob was I ever granted glimpse of who exactly these new people might be. 

The first was the mother and father, I didn't see her until long after they'd arrived and settled into Dewberry street and when her mother and father were contented enough by the church to start going to regular sermons. 

Her mother and father were somewhat of a synchronous couple, only perturbed by the few disagreements that led me to believe that they were a couple brought together by more manners of convenience than passion. They were nervous about me, skittish, and they looked about the church as if was some foreign spectacle that they had no real knowledge nor preparation for. An impulsive decision. 

A few questions concerning their knowledge of the Bible and holy readings was all the confirmation necessary. These people hadn't been to church before, in fact, previously they might've even gone against it. But something caught my attention in particular, because the minute I went to offer my hand to Mr. Bendolen as of to introduce myself, his hand left mine startlingly quick after. But not because he was repulsed, nor was he against the touch, no. He avoided my eyes, and so did his wife. 

They were guilty. 

I didn't know of what, there was no hint to speculate upon. Even when I attempted to turn the conversation in subtle ways as I could, all I could discern was that Mr. and Mrs. Bendolen had lived in a West Coast major city and that they had departed very suddenly and seemingly without cause along with their fifteen year old daughter, Sarif. I wouldn't deny, it intrigued me, but I had no intention to pry. Many here neglected the penitence offered to them when, duly, they required it; to see a couple afraid of me for my own kindness was... _fascinating_. 

Mr. Bendolen was a tall, serious man. It appeared he used to be in some status of authority before but now he appeared to cower before me, even for my comparably unremarkable physique beside him. He had broad shoulders; which he hunched in upon himself, and thick, black hair and a significant mustache. Far down upon his nose were a pair of thick glasses and his watery brown eyes darted everywhere but the place in which I stood. His wife was a beautiful if slightly plain woman; with equally black curly hair and a voluptuous bosom which she concealed behind a shirt with a high neckline. Over her shoulders was an abnormally heavy jacket even for the humid weather outside that threatened to exceed the old church conditioner and bring it to its final resting coughs. They both wear the stress clearly on their faces, with pinched foreheads and emphasized wrinkles, the beginnings of white hair crowning both of their brows. And they both look like they wouldn't dare touch me for the life of them. 

I did as I would and led them around the pews, the alter, the confessional, downstairs to where a classroom had been installed for Sunday school and the boy's choir. Outside to where there was a separate building for the rectory and oratory, the cafeteria--I bypassed the kitchen and both Father Jacob's and mine own office for obvious reasons--. I kept a steady stream of conversation as I did, inviting them to relax their tensions by telling them more of myself than address the church so they might disassociate me from godliness and see me as more personable. It worked for its intended effect and nearing the end, I was able to ask comfortably if either Mr. or Mrs. Bendolen was lapsed or hadn't touched on at all. 

Mr. Bendolen confessed to me that his parents had been Roman Catholic and he had rejected the ways of the church when he had been old enough but a recent turn of event had necessitated new consideration for the church he used to loathe. Mrs. Bendolen had never been to church herself but some of her distant relatives were Episcopalian and Buddhist. 

They were strange. They were ethnic. The township would hate them for every liberal view uttered and every variant in style that distinguished Us from Them in this shallow, close-minded town. It wouldn't effect me any way I acted towards them. The township would assume I upheld the same useless prejudices they did and that I was only being kind as I welcomed them into the church and into my home. It mattered little to me then how Mr. And Mrs. Bendolen would make their way with the unobserved setbacks placed already upon them. 

That was, until Sarif showed up with her parents one day during mass after her parents had settled uncomfortably with the schedule and demands the divine cause detailed, only six short weeks after they had first moved in.

Sarif was short. That was my first impression of her as she followed casually behind her parents when they first entered the chapel doors and settled into the pews towards the far back of the church. She had a shock of straight black hair that was twisted into a severe ponytail, paler skin than either of her parents, she had clearly missed the gene her mother had for bounty for the girl's breasts were barely apparent, nor was there any curvature to her hips or her derierre. She looked odd; childish and androgynous, but her dark eyes were piercing, steadfast and deadly sharp with the kind of careful dissection of her surroundings that was normally reserved for cautious, speculative adults. She looked twelve at most, even for her mother's confidence in me that she was indeed, fifteen. However, even for the innocence belied by her figure, there was no doubt in my mind that she was older than might be apparent at first glance. While her parents slouched and avoided eye contact with anyone in the church, Sarif held herself straight, with quiet confidence, and turned directly towards anyone who looked their way, staring them down until they got so uncomfortable that they turned first. She sat a feet feet away from her parent, a pew behind, close enough for mild association but not for personal; and she crossed her arms as soon as she sat down, leaning back in the pew and refusing to reach for the Bible in the stands when Father Jacob opened to Genesis 17:22 and began the recitation. 

The only point at which she seemed to change from this apathetic posture was the minute Father Jacob introduced me to lead in Psalms and the next oration on the blessing of Abraham. She stared at me, unflinchingly, and it was rather distracting as I tried to focus on the moral of sacrifice to Jesus, and therefore God. Her eyes were dark, they looked pitch in the light coming through the stained glass windows that cast the back of the church in a shadowed red and purple hue, and she didn't blink once. Whilst the other churchgoers either concentrated hard with a look of respect and reverence or the darting looks of bored distraction among (primarily) the children; she looked at me with a most inscrutable expression. It was difficult to decipher, but as my eyes were continually drawn to the tenuous stare, I processed a vast range of emotions, none of which clarified anything of her specific interest in me, only clued me into more of the family's silhouetted past. 

There was...extreme curiosity, and a sort of enraged red gleam as if she was indicted by my very presence, but most prominent of all was the look of wariness, an underlying fear that I wasn't privy to. It was at once both unnervingly familiar and foreign to me. I had understood fear before, after all, I was a conduit for it. Who but I knew exactly every twitch of expression and distortion of the mouth and eyes and nose that led to all assortment of categorical, individualized fears. But this was new. No stranger had ever looked upon me with such trepidation, only those who knew me... _very_...intimately. It was as if Sarif knew about me what I had told no-one and never intended to. 

It was uncomfortable, it disturbed me. I passed through the oration without recalling a word of what I'd said. And I wasn't so easily daunted, many had tried in the past to cow me to a lesser state and none had yet to succeed. But even as Sarif looked at me, I felt something deeper, darker. Something that licked upon the inside, whispering static into my ears and filling my blood with a most peculiar feeling of hunger beyond mere need of sustenance. A mortal hunger that went as deep as nature itself. It was not a feeling I was unfamiliar with, it fed upon the fear in which I would incite in people when the demands of the beast became too great to bear alone. She feared me and that excited me. Sarif knew something of me that she hadn't told yet and that kind of personal contact, that _intimacy_  made me feel high in a way I hadn't quite experienced before. 

I set away the Bible and said the final blessing words before allowing Father Jacob to climb to the alter and resume his sermon. I stayed by his side and didn't look at her again for the rest of the mass. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sister Barstadt, the head Priestess, had been sick with the stomach flu so Father Jacob had requested that morning for me to help the nuns with cooking whilst Father Jacob entertained the church goers up above in the auditorium. 

I was in charge of meat handling. Irksome to the extent that Sister Feren had assumed me only capable of cooking to the smallest degree. Yet I said nothing, allowing her her own delusions to the extent of her capability. If none but God knew there weren't many here. 

Blood seeps between my fingers as I press the tube meat into patties, falling in rivulets down over my pale knuckles before dripping into the sink in continual splatters, staining the white ceramic in thin, watery red. My hands were clean when I first started, only the faintest hints remaining on my palms and fingers, but now after six or seven patties, they were coated. The blood had latched itself in my cuticles, under my fingernails, in the fine prints of my fingertips and palms and onto the salt and pepper shakers I was reaching for; everything I touched now shimmered in a fine sheen of vicious scarlet. 

Sister Unity had excused herself to go to the bathroom and Sister Feren was upstairs serving the church goers, so I was alone in the kitchen, the neat rows of patties sitting next to me on a cutting board. Yet, suddenly, I could feel a pair of eyes on me, looking over at me from the corner towards the entrance. It couldn't have been either Sister Unity nor Sister Feren because they would've introduced themselves upon entry so, without looking, I said simply. 

"The auditorium is upstairs and the bathroom are down the hall to the right. It shouldn't be too difficult to find." 

I could hear someone's breath catch, someone small, feminine. And then a young, childish voice, "I'm not lost." 

At this, I turned around, catching a shrewd glance behind me. I was unsurprised to find Sarif standing there, looking at me with that same, inscrutable expression as she had before. I had partially turned, and her dark eyes automatically latched onto my hands, that same fear that I had seen before increasing tenfold. It secretly delighted me--and I wasn't about to forgo the feeling so easily--so I smiled good-naturedly, keeping my hands in view as I set them on the counter. 

"Oh? Are you hungry? These should by done fairly soon." I resumed, waving over towards the patties. 

Sarif shook her head, curious, I turned towards her fully. 

"Is there something else you need?" I asked, raising my eyebrows as I leaned back against the counter. Sarif stared at me for a long moment, the corners of her eyes tightening the longer she looked at me. She looked suspicious, she looked haunted, she looked at me like she knew me. 

"No." She finally said. "You remind me of someone." 

Ah, that would make sense. I folded my arms, uncaring of the fact that I was getting blood and ground meat on the dark fabric of my cassock. "If I might be so bold, who is it I remind you of? That may simply be a figment of my perception, but you didn't look so pleased when I was giving my sermons." 

For a second of a moment, she looked guilty, and she back away slightly, shielding herself partially behind the door. "Sorry. It's just. My brother. You don't look like him but you still...you have the exact same eyes." She blurted hurriedly, looking away from me as she shifted uncomfortably, for the first time appearing awkward and disjointed. The way a teenager should be. 

This time, I was hesitant. I looked at her for a long period whilst she squirmed, debating whether it was in my grounds to ask. This was clearly a bad story, and I wasn't sure if I would be alienating her by wondering. Finally, I decided I would rather she invite whatever information she was willing to give. "I-I don't recall any mention of a brother." 

"He's in prison." She looked up at me, stared at me directly in the eye and I froze. My expression flatlined and I knew it was unnerving to look at, I should show some sympathy, but I couldn't prevent it. 

"Do you miss him?" I asked, and my tone was a touch dark, just a whisper of the beast I knew, and her eyes seemed to flicker with this knowledge, the fear passing in and out of her eyes as she straightened. 

"Yes." Her voice mirrored my darkness, although of a different sort. It shook with rage, a sort of black resentment that she concentrated on me now. I wanted to smile. "But he belongs there." 

"Well perhaps you'll find forgiveness in your heart for him here." I said, turning back towards the patties as I reached for the meat tube. 

"I don't believe in God." She said. It was a statement. A fact. Something offhand that she had established long before. She said it with all the confidence of someone who figured God to be a figure of total goodness and therefore not able to exist in a world full of famine, disease, war, and perversion. 

"Were you listening to my sermon?" I asked simply, finally rising my hand under the sink. The red cleared of my hands, turning a lighter shade under the clear water and swirling in the basin, as if attempting to avoid being sucked down into the abyss where who knows what else lay. 

"I didn't have much of a choice." 

"Well then you will know that God ordered the death of a defenseless innocent, more a child. Isaac." 

"Yes. And?" I smiled at her stubbornness, such arrogance for one so small. Then again, so were believers. Every single Priest and Pope and Cardinal that considered themselves connected personally to God. 

"Everyone thinks of God differently. Some think he's Good, and this is all a part of some greater morality. Others think he's Great, and that he wants the people to lead themselves to the path of either damnation or ethereal blessing. Regardless, none but God truly know his design, some may claim to, they have no idea what they're talking about." More blood, as I pressed another patty, molding the flesh and skin and meat between my fingers. 

I heard her shift behind me. "Okay, so say you're right. God's complicated. God's got something seriously fucked up going on. Why would he do this? Create all of the way we are? Why give us a choice?" 

She was testing me, trying to see what kind of person I was. She expected me to flinch at the expletive, she expected me to condemn her for her beliefs. She was blinded by stereotypes, and she feared what I was if I wasn't the archetype of total righteousness. I wondered what it was her brother had done to make her fear so. 

"There's obviously much speculation and disagreement about it. But personally, I don't think God is much too different from ourselves, God did build Adam off a model of himself. And I think he meant to transcend more than just physical characteristics as some preachers are meant to believe. I think everything God did had its intention, and most for him. Giving Adam the power to disobey him was a choice. Giving us the power to disbelieve him was also a choice. Creating Lucifer was a choice, destroying Lucifer is also His choice. One that he has not acted upon. So what do I think?" I looked at Sarif again and she stared back at me, a severe cut to her brows. 

"I think God meant to create us in order to answer a question about himself. Maybe even He doesn't know truly if he's Good or if he's Great." I turned around and quickly moved towards Sarif, looking down at her childish figure. 

"Isn't that blasphemy?" Sarif asked, taking a step away from me even when my eyes carefully followed the movement. 

"Maybe." I said quietly. "So God condemn my soul if He thinks so, too." 

Sarif seemed to respect this, nodding her head absently and turning away to leave but not before I caught her with final, parting words. 

"Be careful slinging your beliefs around so easily. I might not take easy offense, but others out there are begging for an excuse to extol you for any reason you give them." Sarif stared at me for a long moment, frowning as she clutched the edge of the doorway. Then finally, her lips parted. 

"Thank you, father." And that was all.


	3. Amaranth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for general foulmouthedness. Other than that, pretty clean. This chapter isn't reviewed since I just wanted to get it up but I may go back over it. Besides that, my previous claims still stand. Enjoy. :)

I had a certain schedule I'd established for myself in the years I've been here. A current in which I'd tapped and now chose to hover in relative homeostasis.  
  
Upon invitation, I refused to reside in the rectory. I hadn't made a strict plan for myself when I first came to this town but I knew one thing I wanted, something I had never indulged in before for the duration of my short life; a place of my own. Initially, Father Jacob and the nuns frowned upon this but when I insisted it had less to do with personal possession and more to occupy my time and give me room to breathe, they abated and allowed me this.  
  
It was an isolated little place, far out from the Glades where the rural community transcended into suburbia and where a good portion of the church-abiding folk resided. It was dirt cheap, damp, lacking more repairs than I cared to count; but it was mine and mine alone. The exterior had broken-in windows and a sort of murky white finish on the walls; numerous rooms, many of which were entirely empty. What was left from the former owners, I had adopted for myself, including a worn leather sofa, a red armchair, a velvet setteé, and the remnants of a bedframe I had used for lumber. What wasn't there originally, I had installed myself; two bookshelves for the living room, a complete bed-set for the master bedroom, I had completely renovated the kitchen; replacing the cabinets were they were burnt and molded in some areas and I had put in a microwave, calling on a mechanic to fix the dilapidated oven. Though perhaps the biggest of these renovations was the time I had devoted to fixing the garage; hours spent tearing down the molded and toxic insulation and replacing it with carpet fibers and new insulation before topping it with a thin layer of stainless steel; rebuilding the stairs where they had fallen into disrepair; and lastly, installing a drain at the very bottom of the concrete expanse. What was left over, I had boarded up; numerous unused rooms that were now closed off permanently when I had drilled the doors shut. The sizeable house now resembled the size of an apartment but that was precisely the way I wanted it to be.  
  
Five months into the revitalization process, a small rough-looking scarred male cat had appeared at my door, scratching at it and yowling insistently. I had left out some leftover fish skins from my previous meal, expecting the cat to eat and move on until it trodded inside my house the minute I opened the front door and settled comfortably in the center of the couch. Since then, the cat has been frequent to appear in my home, not that I minded terribly. It provided some small means of companionship during evenings that were particularly quiet. When all that filled my head was the gentle chirps of the katydids and the omnipresent sound of static. I had named the cat Haether.  
  
I awake at 5:30 just seconds before my alarm every morning. From there, I exercise for an hour before showering and eating breakfast. Then, I get into my old Toyota land cruiser and drive to work. On Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays I work til one o'clock at a coffee shop downtown; conducting myself as a standard barista and making book recommendations to patrons as requested. Then on Mondays, Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays I work for a small contract construction company as an oversee manager. Sundays obviously, are devoted to church and on Tuesday and Friday evenings, I'll attend to the regular duties as priest, leaving Father Jacob to spend the time as he will. For what little time I can't occupy, I'll resume working on my house or I'll read the books I've shelved; or even upon rarer occasion, I'll do what I did before and complete odd mechanical work for those among the town who requested it of me still.  
  
On Thursday the previous week, I had received an email in my inbox from Mrs. Pulant addressing her troubles with a blocked drain in her bathroom--insisting that bringing in a plumber would disrupt her son, Jacob, and throw him into a fit--she had sought out my services. At first, I was inclined to refuse. I knew well enough that Jacob was autistic and that her rationale for seeking me out specifically was sound; however, some sly comments that Mrs. Pulant had passed at me in the past had made me slightly disinclined to thinking her intentions for having me over were entirely innocent. In the end however, I decided I would go regardless. Even if Mrs. Pulant would make me uncomfortable, I seriously doubted she would go so far as to sexually harass a _priest_. And even if she did, it wasn't like I was defenseless. Simple words of dissuasion would be enough to stop her; she was sensitive to the church and upheld its values religiously, easy enough to see why what with her son's predisposition.  
  
Tuesday afternoon was the date we'd agreed upon. I informed Father Jacob that I would be occupied and he filled in the excess three hours. After some small debate, Mrs. Pulant and I also came to the settled price of one hundred dollars to relieve to drain, depending on of course, what the internal problem was and how expensive it would be to replace the parts should it come to that result. At the predicted time, I climbed into my Toyota and navigated the labyrinth of suburban streets with ease, approximately forty minutes away from my home. Practice had eased my way and I pulled into Mrs. Pulant's driveway at precisely three o'clock.  
  
I was not precisely dressed professionally but I figured for a blocked drain, there wouldn't be much need for formalities. I had thrown on a pair of torn, faded jeans that I had from my early twenties and a black wifebeater however, the small silver cross I always wore remained firmly around my neck. In this, I approached Mrs. Pulant's door, knocking once expeditiously.  
  
It didn't take long, I could hear quick, hurried steps leading to the door; then the dyed red curls of Mrs. Pulant as she pulled open the door and smiled brightly, her brown eyes twinkling with barely restrained joy.  
  
"Father Leron! How good it is to see you!" The forty year old woman gushed.  
  
"Please." I smiled emphatically. "When I'm not wearing my cassock, I prefer James."  
  
"James then." Mrs. Pulant smile widened as she tilted her head endearingly. "Come in, come in." She widened the door for me, leaning back against the wall as I stepped past the doormat and looked around curiously.  
  
I heard the door shut behind me, then Mrs. Pulant's staccato, "the bathroom is towards the back of the house but it's on the main floor. I just set Jacob in for his afternoon nap so the place should be pretty quiet." There was a small note of demand in this little facet of information but I chose to ignore it, instead taking in the interior of Mrs. Pulant's home. Everything was in perfect order; clean to an almost clinical degree. The walls were beige and the finish was white; the furniture was bland and unimpressive; the artwork limited and pedestrian and overcome almost entirely with images of beach vacations and the Pulant's blonde bombshell of a daughter, Daniela.  
  
What a delightful farce. A shrine of would-be's and could-have-been's. I smirked.  
  
"Could you show me there?" I asked politely, turning back to Mrs. Pulant.  
  
"Of course." Her obscenely red curls bounced as she nodded her head rapidly, waving for me to follow her as she wandered down the hall. "It started up just a few weeks ago. At first I got thought Daniela and I had accumulated enough hair to cause a blockage but I used the drainage tool and I could only get it down halfway and then it stopped draining altogether."  
  
"Sounds like a solid block." I mumbled distractedly, my attention attracted to a picture of Daniela wearing an extremely low-cut shirt, exposing a small golden cross between her bountiful breasts. I was given to understand the Pulant's focussed attentions to their enfeebled son Jacob had left an extremely wide gap for their daughter to be as cruel and inflammatory to other individuals her age as she so desired. It wouldn't affect me much, if only for the fact that every single confession I had heard among the youth of the church had detailed some sort of impure thought concerning this one insufferable girl. Both sexually and violently explicit, and mostly gender-oriented though that wasn't a strict rule.  
  
"Yes, that's what I thought. Just here." Mrs. Pulant pushed open the door to the plebeian bathroom and I turned to look inside, setting my tools down on the white linoleum and kneeling before the maple cabinet. I opened it and looked inside; a couple of old rags, a toilet brush, and the white crust on the pipes passing into a damp shimmer where a secondary leak had sprung. I reached up and turned on the faucet, sticking my head in the cabinet and listening for where the trickling of water tapered off in the pipe.  
  
I worked for a while, having Mrs. Pulant's buzzing voice in my ear for the better part of an hour as I fixed the faucet. From this inane chat, I was unfortunate to discover that the neighbor's cat had died due to an incident with the Tupell brothers; Mrs. Pulant was considering a vacation to Costa Rica with her husband if she could find a suitable babysitter; and some other mindless facts about yoga and how Mrs. Pulant had been affecting in it recently and found it successful towards achieving her goal of a 30 inch waistline before the end of the year. She was just about to delve into what she had recently learned concerning details of how abdominal musculature differed for both men and women when the relieving chime of the doorbell rang from the living room and Mrs. Pulant excused herself to receive it. From here, I had a few moments of blessed silence to myself as I reset the articles of the pipe and started to screw in the bolts when it occurred to me that Mrs. Pulant had not returned in twelve minutes since she'd left to attend to the doorbell.  
  
My curiosity piqued, I abandoned my tools and stood up, brushing down my jeans before exiting the bathroom and making my way down the hall. Ahead of me, I could see Mrs. Pulant's backside, her hand gripping the door white-knuckled as she hissed at whomever was standing on the stoop.  
  
"I refuse to answer to such an insolent, obscene girl. Particularly not when she's try to pass off dirt as high glassware. I won't pay anymore than twenty, and that is my limit." I overheard Mrs. Pulant say with significant hostility.  
  
"Listen here, lady. I don't give two shits what your limit is, I'm not the one profiting here. So you'd better pull that Betty-Crockett baking handle out of your ass and give me what's due or I'll find someone else who'll buy the fucking China, okay?" My eyebrows drew up as I heard the familiar voice of Sarif respond with virulence that equalled Mrs. Pulant's. An additional note of exasperation coloured Sarif's voice, which prompted me to interject.  
  
"Is everything alright, Mrs. Pulant?" I asked softly, although Mrs. Pulant still flinched at the unexpected sound of my voice behind her as her head whipped around.  
  
I could hear her give an audible breath of relief as she recognized who it was talking to her. "Oh good Lord you scared me, James." She turned her head further and smiled at me. "It's no issue of note, Miss. Bendolen and I were just having a mild disagreement about the worth of the China her parents are selling me. It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."  
  
"Yeah, no issue of note except the fact you're trying to fucking stiff me." I heard Sarif mutter under her breath and Mrs. Pulant's sweet smile twisted into a scowl as she turned back towards where Sarif nonchalantly stood. The door widened and I could make out Sarif myself, her petite hips cocked as her sharp black eyes stared accusingly at Mrs. Pulant whilst she hefted a large cardboard box in her arms.  
  
"Give her my pay if she insists." The words had left my mouth without due consideration, not that I really saw the need for it. Fact of it was, Mrs. Pulant was being cheap and Sarif was going to stand there until her arms fell off to argue with Mrs. Pulant until she got what she deemed fair. It was a simple solution to a stubborn problem and I didn't really need the money anyway.  
  
Mrs. Pulant's head twisted around to face me once more, surprise and concern dashing across her features in a rapid second, "you really don't need to do that, James."  
  
"Need? No. But if I was new to the neighborhood, I would wish to be granted the same kindness I was given when I first arrived here. It's awfully frightening, being so foreign to the customs and traditions of someplace new. And for proper introduction, there needs to be a kind and understanding teacher, wouldn't you agree, Mrs. Pulant?" I tilted my head, challenging her to disagree and I watched Mrs. Pulant swallow under the disappointment of my gaze, her eyes turned downwards and away from me.  
  
"I-I'll go grab my checkbook, then." Mrs. Pulant stuttered, still refusing to look at me as she turned and disappeared back into the house.  
  
Sarif wasted no time, none. "What the fuck was that?"  
  
I turned towards her, blinking. My eyebrows turned down in confusion, "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Don't bullshit me. I don't want your fucking charity, and neither do my parents. We didn't come here to be treated with condescension of any sort and that includes being cheated AND being given hand-outs just because we're the poor liberal Hispanic family from Los Angeles. Now take your goddamn money, I'm leaving." Sarif turned, hoisting the box up on her hip before my voice stopped her.  
  
"What on earth makes you think I was granting charity?" I asked softly, and Sarif turned around again, staring dumbly at me in shellshocked surprise.  
  
"That was not sympathy you saw, dear girl, that was a reminder. Despite evidence to the contrary, Mrs. Pulant is a genuinely _good_  person however, she, like so many others, tends to think just because sins may be small, they don't count. You didn't need the money, I knew that, but Mrs. Pulant did need to acknowledge what she was doing by cheating you. Hence, I will go without and Mrs. Pulant will feel the weight of her greed particularly because she just stole from a holy man, and not just--as you say--a rude little Hispanic girl from Los Angeles." I smiled at the flash of understanding in Sarif's eyes, and even better, respect. The ever-lingering trepidation was still present but now it was slighted by my reasoning and her recognition of it.  
  
"Shoot." Sarif let out a sharp bark of laughter. "I was wrong. You're not like my brother at all, he was way less underhanded than you."  
  
My smile faltered slightly and Sarif grinned viciously at the perceived victory just as Mrs. Pulant returned, ripping a cheque off the top of the checkbook and handing it wordlessly to Sarif, avoiding both our eyes. Sarif leaned over and set the box down on the stoop--I could hear the characteristic _clank_  of glassware at Sarif's rough handling--and reached out, grabbing the check and scrutinizing it carefully for solecisms before folding it once and slipping it in her back pocket.  
  
Sarif grinned toothily, mischievously, before tipping an invisible hat at Mrs. Pulant. "Not a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Pulant. Father." Sarif nodded both at us once before she turned her back, preparing to leave.  
  
I stepped forwards, suddenly and unexpectedly overcome. I didn't want Sarif to leave, not on this note. What possessed me, I hadn't a clue, but for some inexplicable reason I wanted to _prove_  to Sarif that I was different than she saw me. Even if I wasn't, even if I was exactly the conniving monster she thought I was, I wanted desperately to deceive her. I had done it so well for so long, maybe at some level I considered her a threat to me if I wasn't fully convinced that she trusted me not to bring harm to her. Along this train of thought, the words left my mouth, "let me take you home."  
  
I could see her freeze. Her shoulders bunching and I noticed the not insignificant musculature of her back as she turned her head towards me, but didn't fully look. I was surprised I had not observed it before.  
  
"No offense, of course but I prefer my asshole un-sodomized by creepy old men giving out free rides for children, thanks." With this, she turned to look at me, her expression inordinately serious for someone so young even as her voice rang with immature humour.  
  
I could hear Mrs. Pulant make an abhorrent noise beside me. "Now--young lady! Apologize right now and accept what this man has so kindly offered you or God save your soul! James is beyond all shadow of a doubt the sweetest man I know and to accuse him of such horrendous acts is--!"  
  
"It's alright, Vivienne. She has every right to be wary of me." I said, using Mrs. Pulant's first name to sooth her where I was beginning to grow disconcerted over the exacerbating redness of her face. "How about this, then? You can call your parents and tell them I'm offering you a ride home. You can even tell them what time to expect you back if you must but I really don't think that'll be necessary."  
  
"I don't have a phone." Sarif said bluntly as she eyed me with growing distrust.  
  
"Well, lucky that I do." Mrs. Pulant cut in bluntly, crossing her arms. "Come now, I won't offer twice."  
  
Now, doubt flooded Sarif's features and she stared at me as her heel dragged hesitantly on the concrete. The fear was there, I could see it clearly, multiplied tenfold as it was, but beyond it I could see another emotion warring against it, an emotion as human as hunger and pain.  
  
Curiosity.  
  
There was no fight now. I had already won.  
  
I very nearly smiled, watching carefully as Sarif slowly approached the door, pausing several times, fully prepared to turn back, but I knew she wouldn't. And this was only confirmed when her steps sped up the minute her delicate feet touched the entrance to the house. She kept her gaze on me and in it I could see doubt etched across her face, written all over. She knew the potential penalties of her decision, she was hypersensitive to them.  
  
However, all that mattered to me was that she had made it just the same.  
  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Three minutes passed and Sarif still hadn't opened the door.  
  
I sighed, bored. "At this point, I'll pay you simply to get in the car and put on your seatbelt, no sodomy nor grand gestures necessary. Now please hurry up, you're going to expend the time past when you told your parents you would be home."  
  
"Don't you think that's the point?" I heard Sarif's voice shout up from outside, although my truck was both high enough and her small enough for me to not be able to see anything of her.  
  
"Swearing and now extortion, your tally of miscreant behaviours is growing awfully high, young girl." I said, a tinge of teasing humour to my voice. Growing restless, I slid the keys into the ignition and turned them, feeling the rumble of the engine start up beneath me. "I hope you realize there are limits even to the patience of priests, now please get in the car. Please." I could hear a note of desperation in my voice.  
  
There was a pause, Sarif didn't respond, then _finally_  I heard her jumping up on the booster and opening the door. I turned my head and watched her head of dark hair appear through the opening, her ponytail swinging as she slid into the seat and reached for the seatbelt.  
  
"I have the particularly nasty habit of smoking in the car, you don't mind if I...?" I reached over the seat to the glove compartment, my arm accidentally brushing Sarif's knee. I chose to ignore the way she _flinched_  away from me and huddled against the door as I grabbed the cartridge of Marlboros and withdrew, grabbing one and pulling it up to my mouth.  
  
"The air of Los Angeles is at least twenty-three percent cigarette smoke, I don't think it'll make much difference." Sarif responded, turning her face towards the window as she settled back in her seat. Looking across at her, I dug around in my front pocket for a lighter and pushed down the switch, cupping my hand around the tentative flame that sparked up as I lit the tip of the cigarette.  
  
Setting the lighter down in the cup holder, I inhaled deeply, feeling the smoke and toxins fill my lungs as I let my head fall back against the seat, my eyelids fluttering closed. I then expelled, the smoke weaving through my nostrils and between my parted lips, creating strange, beautiful patterns in the air; I cracked the window, allowing a small vacuum to suck out the smoke as I changed the stickshift into reverse and pressed down on the gas, turning my head to look through the window as I backed out. Then, finally, I chose to respond, relieving the discomfort that had been building steadily on Sarif's end for the duration of my silence.  
  
"So. Los Angeles, that's where you're from?" I said conversationally as I shifted into drive.  
  
"Yeah. My parents don't exactly advertise that considering our background and all." Sarif mumbled quietly, not exactly sullen but more...distracted.  
  
"Really? Your brother must've done something fairly severe to prompt your parents to leave it all behind without a spare mention." I said casually, not that Sarif was slow on the uptake.  
  
"Oh, stop fishing. That's not cute, not even coming from you. Jesus, you'd think these assholes would figure out that they aren't knowing shit on the details unless I want them to." This time, there was evident disdain--amongst pride--in Sarif's voice and I watched her gaze morph into a glare out of my periphery. I smiled, and watched tracing of lingering smoke curve across my lips.  
  
"Do you want me to?" I asked, my modulation carefully indifferent.  
  
"Don't push your luck, father. You may have dirt on everyone else in this shitty little town but your holy-devotion crap isn't fooling me." Sarif retorted.  
  
I said nothing, at first. Drawing the cigarette to me lips, I inhaled again and flicked some ash out the window. "You shouldn't be so harsh on your parents." I responded minutely, mild reprimand in my tone.  
  
"The fuck you mean?"  
  
"At mass. You don't sit next to them, you don't talk to them. During lunch, you leave at the earliest opportunity and you clearly resent them seeking God in times of personal hardship." I said, stretching my fingers across the steering wheel.  
  
"What else would you expect I would do? Jesus, they want to pretend my brother didn't exist and now they want God to forgive them for it like they can erase all that happened like a blot on fucking paper. Well let me tell you something, I'm not letting that shit stand. Maybe it comforts them to think God forgives them, but I will _never_  let them fucking forget." Sarif said with hostility that surprised me.  
  
"Have you considered that perhaps you should?" I asked innocently.  
  
"What. Let them forget?" Now there was perverse amusement in Sarif's voice. She considered the very idea repugnant.  
  
"No. Forgive them."  
  
There was deadpan silent on Sarif's part, then a nervous laugh. "Okay, father. Cool it with the 'everything can be solved with God' priestly cliche, it's fucking creepy."  
  
I shook my head, "don't misunderstand me because you're uncomfortable. Your parents are doing exactly what anyone would do in their position. I can't claim I know much of anything about your circumstances but to me it makes sense that a couple of parents who felt a portion of the blame from an act committed by their son or daughter would want to seek some sort of repentance, or not acknowledge the crime at all. That's not acrimony, that's shame. You'd do well to know the difference."  
  
"Well that's exactly it, isn't it? You know exactly nothing about my circumstances, so don't pretend to." Sarif snapped, turning away from me and brooding in silence.  
  
The quiet following permeated the air like a foul poison. In my haste, I had nearly forgotten that Sarif and I were strangers to each other, now however, I was directly confronted with this fact. And not in a pleasant way. I was still intrigued, I was still aching with the desperate need to know why, of all people, Sarif didn't trust _me_. And I knew Sarif was just as curious in me. But I was finding it extremely difficult to breach the walls of impertinence Sarif had set up around herself and upkept with extreme vigilance. I needed an olive branch, metaphorically speaking, some subject matter I knew would be easy for Sarif to accept. I didn't expect however, for Sarif to be the one supplying it.  
  
"So what's your deal with the priesthood, huh?" Sarif asked suddenly, turning her head towards me, curiosity glinting sharply in her shrewd onyx eyes.  
  
I sighed, inhaling once more from my cigarette before tossing it out the window. "In what sense do you mean?"  
  
"Surely you must realize mirrors are a thing in this day and age? Christ, although with the way you talk, I can't be sure if you didn't just happen here from the fourteen-fucking-hundreds." Sarif said, darting over the subject matter like a sprite. I knew, of course, what she was trying to say, but I found myself curious what her reaction would be if I pushed her to say it aloud.  
  
"I'm afraid I don't follow." I responded, my lips twitching.  
  
"Oh, Jesus! Do I really need to spell it out? Fine. I'll interpret it in your speak." Sarif leaned back in her seat, gesturing dramatically with her hands as she took on a faux-British accent. "You look like the sun kissed upon your forehead the day you were born. Gods and Goddesses would surely slice into their right arms for a taste of flawless beauty like that of yours! Roses should not compare--!"  
  
Abruptly, I started laughing, the sound of my laughter deep and booming partly due to the effects of the cigarette on my vocal cords, but I couldn't retain it, that was truly ungodly funny. "So you're trying to say only ugly people are drawn to the clergy?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking." Sarif dropped her arm gracelessly. "I'm trying to say only ugly people _should_  be drawn to the clergy. It seems like great sacrilege to waste a face like that to laws of chastity when it could go into modelling for Calvin Klein, and I think God would agree with me on this one."  
  
I couldn't resist an amused smirk. "Well I've never liked boxers all that much."  
  
"Ew. TMI, dude. Although while we're on the subject of commando and chastity law...surely you can't have upheld those rules to a T, if you know what I mean..."  
  
"I'm afraid I don't." I did.  
  
"Oh, please. Even if you were a faggot, I seriously doubt you don't realize your own face value. And furthermore have used it to your own benefit." Sarif's voice was droll, I risked a glance at her and was satisfied to see an embarrassed flush on her pale cheeks. So the confidence was only partly false. Sarif did care what others thought of her, she would simply like to pretend she didn't.  
  
That didn't however, make the directness of the question any less uncomfortable. I shifted in my seat, "I'm not a homosexual."  
  
"Ah. So you have fucked before."  
  
"I was a teenage boy before I went to seminary school. Did you expect anything different?" This time, there was a note of irritation in my voice.  
  
"Okay. So no-go on virginity. Do you still uphold those laws now?"  
  
I set the car into park and slid the keys out of the ignition. "We're here. I'm not sure which house you live in, so this will have to do."  
  
"No, no, no. I want you to answer the question first." Sarif drew away her seatbelt and turned to face me, undiluted challenge in her eyes as she stared at me expectantly. She had one hand on the dashboard and one arm slung over the headrest of the passenger's seat. It was evident that she wasn't going to leave until she got an answer she was satisfied with, and with this knowledge in mind, I sighed.  
  
"Every priest, when he takes up his vows, makes a promise. It's not just a promise of chastity, it's a promise of legitimacy. To be true to your people and guide the members of the church to the best of your ability. To break or deviate from these laws would undermine my legitimacy and would break the delicate trust the parish has in their leaders and furthermore, their leader's judgement. If you question whether I would break my promise, I tell you now that I would do _nothing_  to ever harm the church, it's values, or the people that believe in them." I stared directly at Sarif, daring that equalled hers in my eyes. It was intimidating, it was direct, and Sarif surprised me when she didn't move away from the harshness of my gaze. Instead, she took me head on.  
  
"I don't doubt it, father." Sarif said, dead serious as she withdrew from the car, slowly, carefully..."thank you for the ride." The door slammed behind her and I watched her cute figure flounce up the steps to her home, her shoulders drawn back and her spine straight, her long arms swinging like she hadn't a care in the world.  
  
I leaned back in my seat, an incredulous laugh escaping my lips.  
  
Brave girl.


End file.
